


Fails and Flaws

by Shikaree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 13:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shikaree/pseuds/Shikaree
Summary: Inspired by the WP on Reddit: 'Share your OCs- Weekly Headcanon Prompts! Fail Week'Prompt 1 - What skill/activity is your OC terrible at?Bonus Prompt - Give us a scene or story about a time your OC failed at something.





	Fails and Flaws

**Prompt 1**

_To say Hawke isn’t too great at timekeeping is akin to saying Knight-Commander Meredith is a little bit skewed in her views on mages. He knows this from personal experience. Correction, past experiences – the plural is important to stress._

_Varric found himself, on more than one occasion, waiting for Hawke in a questionable part of Darktown (which, in fact, describes **all** of Darktown) for far longer than even he felt comfortable in being there – despite the various wellbeing advisors who received a sweetener from his coffers every month to guarantee his ongoing ‘happiness’. Bribes are sometimes unavoidable to grease the wheels of questionable commerce._

_The ambitious storyteller has since come to accept Hawke’s tardiness as an unmalleable facet of his friend’s personality. This is something that won’t change, and in truth, he doesn’t think it fair to ask her to change anything anyway. Not after all she’s been through, and all she’s done for each of them without question. Or hesitation. Nobody’s perfect, but Marian is a true friend, and friends should embrace each other’s foibles – not perceive them as irritating flaws._

_In the early days, before the expedition into the Deep Roads, Varric was guilty of trying to improve Hawke’s awareness of time. He wrote her reminders, left notes in her pack, pinned up bullet-pointed weekly schedules (with appointment details double underlined in red ink), and nagged her in person._

_Once, he even tried imposing a fine on Hawke for each occurrence she was late for a contract. Unsurprisingly she forgot to pay the ‘debt’ to him when it was due, and the amount soon soared. Out of pity Varric wrote it off, and mentally held up his hands in defeat. He’s not certain she even recalls this._

_Now, Varric simply forward plans accordingly. For all their sakes. It’s much easier than struggling against the tide, and it lessens the sting Hawke would otherwise receive from their companions: namely Broody and Blondie (who already lock horns at every turn like territorial rams), and the caterwauling duo that is Rivaini and… Aveline. Life chugs onward, relatively calm and orderly - as much as it can do for a ragtag group of misfits venturing into should-have-been-left-forgotten caves to hunt ginormous spiders, rogue mages, and templars for coin. He’s content with that; it could be worse._

_Daisy is excluded from the naming and shaming of ‘candidates easily antagonised’ amongst them. If Merrill ever complained, just once, it would give Varric such a serious shock to the system. He’d require a very long lie down in a darkened room to recover, where he would also have to consider composing a eulogy for his wallet in respect of the painful sum of money lost as a result._

_There’s still another year agreed upon before he can collect his winnings from the guard captain, but he’s confident his wager favouring Daisy’s capability to stay serene will ultimately pay out. Ah, the clink of all those royals, it’ll be worth the wait and the look of disdain on Aveline’s face when she hands them over._

_Aside from himself (now a few years older and resigned to Hawke’s timekeeping disasters), Daisy would never snap at Hawke for being an hour or three late, but the others would- without doubt. Adding any imbalance to an already volatile mix is therefore foolhardy. You really don’t have to be an alchemist to work that one out. So, Varric keeps the arguments between them contained to a minimum by making sure Hawke is where she needs to be, **when** she needs to be there. _

_One instance, when Varric had no choice but to leave Kirkwall to attend to business matters for a couple of days, highlighted just how terrible Hawke is at adhering to deadlines. And the consequences. Without him there to guide the reins, things almost didn’t end well at all…_

 

**Bonus Prompt**

“Varric’s absconded… and he’s left you in charge of the requests to be carried out?”

Hawke rolls her eyes at Fenris, placing her hands on her hips. “You better believe it. He muttered something about not being able to take the broodiness anymore, that he needed a break lest his chest hair wilt in depression.”

“I’m sure he did” the elf deadpans. “And, that being the case, what _is_ your plan for us this afternoon precisely?”

Hawke scrunches her nose and scours her memory. “There are some slave traders to take care of, which should assuage your overbearing broodiness a teensy bit, and… uh… some carta thingy in Darktown?”

“Thingy. That’s a special term, I take it.”

“Pfft, I don’t know. I live for the moment, Fenris. It’ll be fine.”

What did the meeting with the carta entail? Stupid brain. Varric was insistent that Hawke couldn’t bow out of the meeting at any cost, though anything involving the carta normally meant bad news. Cutthroats, thieves, thugs… bah, she’d work it out when they got there. As usual.

An amenable gathering was unlikely. Perhaps they were interfering with Varric’s trade partners and he needed them silenced… or something else. Bribes? No, he hadn’t passed her a coin pouch. Had he? Hawke checks, patting her pockets. Thank the Maker, no, he didn’t. Hmm, ‘Ten o’clock bell, south eastern warehouse by the smuggler’s hatch’. Didn’t Varric mention an escort job? Was it related?

Hawke’s focus is always hazy when the dwarf uses repetition on her, in the hope that specifics will stick. People are forever in a rush, often absorbed by a sense of self-importance and entitlement. Maker forbid something delays their ‘neatly packaged and tied with a ribbon’ plans. Life rarely conforms to will, and if it does, Hawke considers this to be coincidence. There are always bumps along the trackway – she lost her family, her childhood home – so why should she not at least try to enjoy some of the scenery? The miserable ride only ends with one result.

“That assurance could sound more convincing, Hawke” Anders pipes up. The mage finishes securing his shoulder length hair with a thin strip of leather. Shaking his head side to side, he tests how well the band will hold. A few blond strands fall loose, but it obviously passes his crude test. Shouldering his staff, he adjusts the position of the strap so that the wooden shaft nestles comfortably against his back. Satisfied, Anders nods in readiness.

Hawke clutches her hands over her heart. “You too, Anders? Honestly, this lack of faith in my abilities stings to the core my handsome, rebellious friend.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Hawke.” There is a glint in his eye that hints the opposite. Although Hawke turned down the ex-Grey Warden’s advances when they first met, she has noticed a few lingering glances and flirty suggestions over the years that indicate he may not have abandoned his pursuit of her.

Maybe she shouldn’t encourage him, though it seems harmless enough – tongue in cheek – and she’s only stating the truth as she sees it: Anders _is_ handsome, in a ‘tortured soul’ kind of way. The Justice issue doesn’t help though. There is an allure there, sexual attraction if nothing else, yet Hawke realises that an advance past ‘more than friends’ wouldn’t end well. The man is too obsessed with the underground mage network, and penning his manifesto for distribution to the misinformed masses –

“I have no complaints with you testing that, of course.”

She loses her train of thought, disarmed by Anders’ cute smirk. Maker damn him. Hawke clears her throat. “Anyway, shall we get to it? Sooner we’re done, the sooner Fenris can go ogle Isabella’s assets and I can relax with a bottle at home. Alone.” She looks pointedly at Anders as she places emphasis on ‘alone’.

“Just us three?” Fenris asks.

“Isabella is otherwise tied up… and I think she meant that literally, not figuratively. Sebastian and Merrill-”

She’s interrupted by a resounding cry of objection: a firm “No” from Fenris, and an exasperated “Maker’s breath, tell me you’re joking!” from Anders.

Hawke relents, as she knew was inevitable. “- who apparently aren’t invited because I would have to deal with two grown adults sulking like toddlers.” The pair exchange a relieved glance. “Hmm, at least you two agree _can_ on something, when you put your minds to it. I really don’t see what’s so bad about… aaand the pouting is enough to make me drop that line of conversation like a hot potato.” Hawke sighs. “Fine. Aveline is on duty this evening, patrolling Hightown with a few new recruits to show them the ropes.”

“Bore them to tears and suck out their souls, you mean” Anders says.

“I don’t envy the new guys, just don’t mention that to Aveline. I’ll deny it, vehemently. And, in answer to your question, Fenris, yes. It’s just the three of us.”

Fenris stretches and then cracks his knuckles. “Slave traders first?”

“It’ll be such a shame” Hawke says, checking her daggers for any detrimental nicks before tucking them into the sheathes on her belt. She may be a self-admitting lazy slob, but Hawke keeps her weapons cleaner than Sebastian’s tasteless chastity belt.

Bewildered by her comment, Fenris asks: “What will?”

“That accident they all succumbed to” Hawke answers nonchalantly, waiting for the copper to drop. A second later the elf’s mouth forms an ‘oh’ of understanding. “There it is” she teases. “Tragic, that we couldn’t hand them over to the authorities alive.”

“I worry about you sometimes, Hawke.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you sound like a female version of him” Anders says, pointing at Fenris.

“Nah, believe it or not, I don’t think Fenris is as jaded as I am. Not after Quentin.”

Anders’ expression grows sombre. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

She waves away his concern, blinking back tears at the memory of what that monster did to her mother. “Don’t worry, Anders. You’re not to blame. Let’s go kill some bad guys, it’ll make me feel better. Oh, and one last thing?” Hawke flashes an exaggeratedly sugary smile at Anders to mask her upset, “With the dwarf out of town, I appoint _you_ to provide the comic relief in his stead.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Fenris mumbles the familiar curse of “Fasta vass” under his breath.

Led by Hawke the intrepid three venture into Lowtown. Making its descent towards the horizon, the afternoon sun is a rich mix of autumnal reds and oranges. The slavers, tevinter mercenaries wearing fancy, embroidered robes beneath their silver mail tunics, are easy to locate. They’re not caked in mud and grime, too pampered and clean to pass for long-term citizens of Kirkwall. This universal rule of thumb concerning the hygiene of local civilians sadly encompasses herself; a hot bath is in order, and luckily Sandal has all sorts of enchantments to serve that purpose for a non-mage.

“I don’t suppose you have a plan, other than attack?” Fenris asks, peeking around the crumbling wall they’ve crouched behind for cover. The slavers will start transferring captives to the tunnels exiting at the docks come nightfall.

“Plan? Uhm, don’t die? In seriousness, they’ll have imprisoned any potential slaves in one of those abandoned shacks adjoining this alleyway. We free them afterwards, I don’t want them caught in the crossfire. I think that guy…” Hawke gestures to an older man with a curled moustache and grey flecks in his neatly trimmed beard, “is the foreman of this particular swarm of vermin. A mage… he’s wearing a staff. I-is that a human skull on the top?”

“Tasteful” Anders says, and Fenris grumbles in disgust.

“Lovely. Let’s cross our fingers that he’s not a blood mage.”

“Yes, because if we wish hard enough it will become true. Tevinter magisters don’t commonly rely on such abhorrent practices. Daily.”

Hawke touches a finger to her lips. “Shhh, Fenris. As I was saying, before messere grumpy enlightened us with his sarcasm, that one’s the leader, so he must fall first to weaken the resolve of the others. There’s, a moment: one… two… three… four… five, not including him.”

“Count them all by yourself, unaided by fingers or toes? I’m impressed, Hawke.”

“Varric stand-in isn’t funny, try harder.”

“Normal Varric isn’t funny either” Anders retorts.

She dutifully ignores him. “Ultimately, barrage the big bad and pick off the rest. And don’t die. Did I mention that part already?”

Fenris groans, fiddling with the pommel of his greatsword and shimmering with his eerie lyrium luminescence. “We got it, Hawke.”

“Good, because that’s honestly all I had.”

They charge, Fenris letting loose a thundering battle cry to draw their attention.

The leader strengthens his aura with a tenebrous shroud of blood magic, but he doesn’t get to cast the spell he’s preparing. Rooted to the spot, eyes bugging in terror, the man slumps to the ground as Fenris phases behind him. No-one expects to have their heart ripped from their chest by an angry, glowing elf, and seemingly not even demons can protect their summoners against it. Hawke shudders, then leaps with her daggers poised at the nearest slaver.

As predicted, with their leader brutally neutralised in front of them, the remaining traders – rogues and swordsmen, not mages – falter in co-ordinating themselves effectively. The fight is over in minutes, with minor scrapes, cuts, and bruises received by Hawke and Fenris on the frontline.

Anders, aided by Justice, fixes their abrasions and injuries with a healing spell, then tends to the women and children destined for foreign shores before the trio’s fateful intervention. It’s a cause to celebrate, and Hawke is almost certain there’s a flicker of a smile on Fenris’ face as he evaluates their good deed with perceptible pride.

“We’re not far from the Hanged Man” Anders suggests.

He could do with a short break, to replenish his mana reserves. It’s a reasonable idea, she thinks, and they have plenty of time. Decision made, Hawke scurries in the direction of the tavern shouting “Last one there buys the drinks!” over her shoulder.

She hands over three silvers for yet another round of _decent_ ale, none of that diluted rubbish peddled to outsiders. She leans with her elbow on the bartop, waiting for Corff to finish pouring. The extra support of her body weight on the counter is welcome – her knees are not bending the right way and her legs are wobbly. She feels like a baby deer learning to walk after birth. On stilts.

Fenris’ long stride makes any race with him as a contender just… unfair. Anders is faster than he looks, though his frame is a mystery. The long feather-collared robe leaves a lot to the imagination, but he was, is, a Grey Warden; their stamina is renowned, and fantasized about by countless simpering, horny pubescent girls.

“Hawke, when do we set out again? There was a thingy, if I’m not mistaken” Fenris calls across the room. The Hanged Man’s interior smells of stale sweat and alcohol, but it’s oddly comforting. Would be better with Varric here, in his chair by the fireplace regaling them all with his stories or thrashing them at Wicked Grace.

“Err, ‘ow many bells?” she slurs back at him.

“The previous round was after the tenth.”

Hawke makes it to their table without spilling a drop – a miracle unto itself. She sets the tray down and slumps into her chair next to Anders.

“Ooops.” She giggles, though she doesn’t know what sparked the fit. Drunk, you moron, you’re drunk. And late. “Balls. Varric not gonna happy… be happy” she corrects. “Ugh. I need eat.”

“Plus, water” Fenris says, seizing her mug from the tray along with his own.

“Hey! No fair. Smaller, drunk more.”

“This isn’t a new occurrence, Hawke.” Fenris stands, his scowl softening. “I’ll get Corff to bring over a bowl of stew.”

Anders tilts his head at her, “I can stem some of the affects, though I can’t instantly sober you.”

Hawke nods, her saliva thin and watery. Oh, Maker, she doesn’t want to vomit. “Please” she manages.

“Come on then, to Varric’s chamber. Don’t want to do this in front of prying eyes, do we.” With an arm hooked around her waist, he steers Hawke up the steps at the rear of the tavern. Staggering into Varric’s room, Hawke unceremoniously flops onto the dwarf’s bed and groans. The world rocks and spirals around her, threatening to drag her into the vortex. Anders’ eyes turn from amber to blue, his hands hovering a few inches above her torso as he casts the spell. Relief is instant. “Better?” he asks.

“Oh, Maker, yes. Thank you, Anders.”

The mage blushes, retracting his hands and dropping them to his sides. “My pleasure.”

“I thought I handled my drink better than that” Hawke says sheepishly. Fenris is waiting for them at the table with the promised bowl of stew. 

“It wasn’t the ale, Hawke. I warned you, but no, you _had_ to try Corff’s new concoction.”

“I don’t… I don’t remember that. What was it?”

“The barkeep obtained the scrap of a recipe, for a qunari liquor called ‘Maraas-Lok’” Fenris says, sliding the bowl to her.

“And that translates to…?”

“Drink.”

“Right, helpful. Don’t suppose you know what’s in it?” Hawke asks, plucking out the spoon and prodding at a chunk of meat.

The elf raises an eyebrow at her. “Everything.”

The stew isn’t bad. “Duly noted” Hawke says, gulping down another mouthful.

On the eleventh bell they bid Corff goodnight and step outside into the evening chill. The hubbub of rowdy patrons is muted once the door swings shut behind them and the moonlit streets are deserted- barring those shady individuals who scope for easy prey. Their journey to the assigned meeting place is uneventful – Hawke’s group have gained notoriety with the criminals in Kirkwall.

“This is the place? You’re sure?” Anders asks. He scans the area, shaking his head. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”

“Then we wait” Hawke says.

“I don’t like this,” Anders whispers, “it could be a trap-”

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Could it be Hawke?” The three of them pivot on their heels, reaching for their weapons in unison. He pays Anders and Fenris no heed, and Hawke finds the dwarf’s grin unsettling. “Why, yes I believe it is! How fortunate for me.”

“You’re our… contact?” she asks, though gut instinct screams otherwise.

The dwarf laughs. “Contact? From the carta? So, one _has_ been blabbing about me. Bloody knew it, you can never trust them.” He raises his hand, a simple signal, and more dwarves emerge from the shadows. Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke sees Fenris squaring his shoulders. This is going to culminate in a scrappy fight, close quarters. She can only guess at how many more cronies this dwarf has nearby. Carta cells can be ten strong, or fifty.

“I don’t know who you are, I have no quarrel-”

The dwarf isn’t interested. “Oh, but I do with you.” He sneers. “See, I intend to take my brother’s place, and your constant meddling in this city is bound to interfere with my goals at some stage. Because you just can’t help yourself, can you, Hawke?” The dwarf spits her name, as if it’s the most disgusting word he knows. “But it won’t be a problem if I remove you, and your friends, before that happens.”

 Within seconds they are surrounded, penned in. Hawke’s daggers blur, deflecting and parrying the flurry of incoming blows. Fenris barges forwards, phasing and pulsing with lyrium power, sweeping his greatsword in short, stunted arcs to clear space. The elf dances nimbly amidst the boundless throng, his pale skin speckled by the spray of crimson droplets in his wake. Bolts of lightning fizzle, Anders’ offensive magic trying to thin the crowd. There are deafening shrieks, roars, the resonant harsh grating of metal against metal.

Hawke gasps and a dagger clatters to the ground from her numb fingers. She stares at the stain blossoming across the front of her shirt, the protective leather jacket slashed and torn open. Blue light, a wave of healing magic. A sharp sting in her back. An iron band crushes her ribs. She chokes, the tang of metal on her tongue.

“NO. I WILL NOT ALLOW IT” the voice of Justice booms.

Fenris’ tone is frantic, distraught. “Hawke! Hold on!”

She drops to her knees on the flagstones, a blizzard of whirling grey flakes obscuring her vision. The cacophony of battle rumbles in her ears, and slowly fades. She isn’t afraid.

Hawke cracks open her eyelids and shuts them again. The light streaming through the window is too bright, and the pounding at her temples doesn’t appreciate the sun’s brilliant glare. Mid-day? She hears a rustle, a shuffle of boots, and the jangle of rings on a curtain pole. Hawke tentatively opens her eyes again. Varric wrings his hands together, opening his mouth to speak and hesitating. Has the storyteller ever been lost for words? Oh, she’s in big trouble.

“Hawke…” his voice breaks. “Andraste’s flaming tits, woman, did I not drum into you how important it was to do that _one_ thing. On time?”

“Good to see you too, Varric. How was the trip?” she croaks.

“Don’t you… no. You almost _died_ , Hawke.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “The carta learnt what Beke was plotting – they were going to accompany you to confront that deceitful little prick, as back-up! His brother’s furious with you, he saw it as an arrogant snub on his offer until I convinced him just how oblivious you can be. Honestly, did I not make it clear?”

“Uh, I messed up.”

“Maker, Ancestors, Creators, anyone… give me the resolve not to throttle you myself.”

“I’m sorry, Varric.” There are dark rings under Varric’s eyes and his clothes are creased. “You haven’t slept, have you?” she says.

“Of course not. I’ve been fretting that my best friend wasn’t going to pull through. Anders didn’t give up, and Fenris… he’s shaken.”

He returns to her bedside, scolding over, and settles in the armchair. He picks up a half-filled notebook and frowns in concentration. Hawke dozes, listening to the scratching of Varric’s pen on the pages.

She wakes later to quietly murmur: “Varric?”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“Does this mean you won’t leave me in charge of important stuff again?”

“I don’t think so, do you?”


End file.
